


Walked Out in Rain – and Back in Rain

by whitefang (radialarch)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Graphic Torture, Other, Post-Reichenbach, nonlinear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/whitefang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three years Sherlock did what he had to. Now he's coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walked Out in Rain – and Back in Rain

**Author's Note:**

> No profit, et cetera.
> 
> Moran here isn't quite the one established in fanon ("dumb muscle", or occasionally "smart muscle"), mostly because I thought Jim’s right-hand man ought to resemble him a bit. In terms of structure, there are two interlocked timelines, so **watch the dates**.
> 
> Much love to Kitkat McRaebs, who stuck with me and didn't call me crazy when I started asking questions like "How does one invite someone in for tea in the UK?" or "If you were a bit paranoid, what kind of weapon would you want?" And, as always, to the awesome Riza for rescuing this fic from the clutches of adverbs and letting assassins do their job properly.
> 
> Title taken from Robert Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night”.

_Mycroft's office, London, England  
April 2014_

 

Mycroft Holmes is the one who taught his younger brother the method of loci. Sherlock had only been three years old, but his eidetic memory had been apparent even then. Mycroft had worried that without some method of organisation, the small boy simply wouldn't have been able to cope with constant sensory input: nameless shades of colour and pitches and scents, not the mention the subtle thrum of nuance underlying every interaction. (That nuance Sherlock had always treated as a foreign language, so that he still finds it tiring to make sustained conversation.) Since then, Mycroft had never known Sherlock to forget anything he didn't want to.

Until one rainy day in April, when Mycroft asked the drenched figure stumbling into his office, "How was your trip abroad?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, and that was the first clue. Instead, the shivering form collapsed into an armchair, heedless of his dripping on the carpet and head tipped upward in something akin to surrender.

"I don't—Mycroft, I don't understand, it's all collapsing, just one large smear in my head and _I don't remember_." There was tiredness in that voice, but also the raw edge of panic. And the last time Mycroft had heard _that_ , their father had been lying on the front steps, with unnaturally pallid skin and a hand clutched to his chest—

"Can you pick out anything?" Mycroft pressed, waving the memory aside. "A word, a voice, a colour?"

Sherlock finally met Mycroft's gaze, those unfocused eyes reminiscent of a time when Sherlock was younger and _much_ more stupid. "I think...the cold. It was always so _cold_."

Anthea came in just as Sherlock lost consciousness. "The car is on its way, sir."

* * *

_Madrid, Spain  
June 2011_

 

_Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen..._

The guard strode around the corner right on schedule, and Sherlock took him in a brutally efficient stranglehold. It took all of ten seconds for the man to fall unconscious. With a grim smile, Sherlock robbed the man of his jacket and badge, lifted the gun from its holster, and walked down the corridor toward the gleaming oak door. On the engraved nameplate, the letters glittered coldly: "Sebastián Morán".

Before he could touch the doorknob, however, a voice called from within. "Entre."

Swallowing down a whisper of doubt, he pushed open the door and walked inside, fiercely gripping the gun.

"Sr. Holmes," said Morán, turning from the window to face Sherlock, "no debería haber violencia entre amigos, ¿no?" He was smiling, as if at a long-remembered joke. "Por favor, guarde el arma."

Sherlock's hand was steady as he raised the pistol to aim between the man's eyes. "Ah, but we aren't friends, _[Coronel Morán](http://thescienceofreichenbach.tumblr.com/post/17026260457/hey-bbc-sherlock-fandom-i-possibly-found-something)_ ," he said without inflection.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," Morán warned, his English almost as fluent as his Spanish. _An English parent? No, but a favourite relation_. "Please, consider the consequences."

"What, of your brains on the carpet? I'll even pay for the cleaning – consider it my apology."

The man didn't even blink as he held up two manila folders. _Edges frayed – have been kept for a while. Kept_ and _frequently updated_. "Did you take the tranvía here, Mr Holmes?"

"If you're trying to dissuade me from shooting, you're doing a very poor job of it."

"Well, I understand that you prefer taxis, so perhaps you won't care so much after all." He flipped open the first file, revealing a map of the subway system, and tapped at one of the lines crossing the page. "At this moment, there is a bomb set to go off within the hour. _La línea 7 – el Hospital del Henares_ ," he added at Sherlock's frown. "Public hospital. Terribly tragic, don't you think?"

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Not interested."

Almost daintily, Morán turned and plucked something from the second folder. _Back of a photograph. Large print, recently developed_ — "Oh, believe me, Mr Holmes, I know. But you might care about _this_." With a flourish, he turned the picture around, but Sherlock didn't need to look to know that it would be John. _Telephoto lens. They haven't reached him. Yet_.

Morán grinned as if Sherlock had spoken aloud. "But Mr Holmes, we don't need to be so close. My snipers are very good at what they do."

"And you've already got one ready, is that it? I kill you, your man kills John?"

With a cool laugh, the man set both files on his desk – _mahogany, recently cleaned, used more as a prop to impress than for actual work_ – and tilted his head in an imitation of regret. "I'm afraid you made a mistake, Mr Holmes. You came straight for me instead of clearing out the ranks. And what you should have known is that there are _always_ contingency plans."

Sherlock lowered the weapon. "As long as you have someone to do your dirty work for you," he said bitterly, "it'll never stop. It's not enough to break one link in the chain."

"It'll be a difficult job," the man said with mock sympathy. "So little time, and so much to do... Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I'll give it my best shot." This wasn't the way it was supposed to go – he'd planned to return to England within the month, but the choice was out of his hands now. _I'm sorry, John_. "Why plant the bomb at all?"

"Consider it my little test." Morán's grin had a vicious twist to it now. "At this time of day, it's not likely that your John's even in his flat, don't you think? Finishing up at work, down at the pub, out on a date?" Sherlock clenched his teeth against the shiver climbing up his spine and said nothing. "A bomb on line 7, though – quite a few people _will_ be hurt.

"One of my orders is not going to be stopped, no matter what. But my sniper isn't staying in London for very long. Is the mere possibility of saving this John's life worth so much? More than an entire hospital?"

"You already know the answer." Sherlock hated the way the words came to him so readily, hated what John might think about Sherlock's response. _There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Just so I know, d'you care about that at all?_

Morán nodded, almost encouraging, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This wasn't a test at all, was it? You were looking for confirmation."

"It's hard to believe the famous Sherlock Holmes has a vulnerability. Can you blame me for doubting?" An airy wave signalled Sherlock's dismissal. "You'd better get out of here before my people arrive. I very much look forward to seeing you again, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock left the way he'd come, and resolutely ignored the news of the explosion when it reached him. John was safe, after all – and he didn't have to know.

* * *

_Unnamed hospital, England  
May 2014 _

 

"Overexertion, they're saying. Moving about before you had a chance to heal – so eager to return, were you? Now it might take twice as long before you're fully recovered."

"You bastard," Sherlock snapped, ignoring Mycroft's words and straining to get up before falling back onto his pillow with a wince. "I've been reading your files. I did what you needed me to do, what you practically forced me into doing, and you didn't even bother to lift a finger. Where were your people when I could have used them in South Africa? Brazil? Afghanistan?"

"You vastly overestimate my influence," was the mild reply. "Besides, you're forgetting about America. And Switzerland. And—"

"Where every other person is in your employ, yes," Sherlock spit out. "So what, your help only came when it was easy?"

"It was, truly, the best I could do." "Don't lie to me, Mycroft, you're wasting your time. And mine." Sherlock's expression left no doubt as to which one he considered more important.

"You really don't know how difficult it is to help a supposedly dead man without arousing suspicion," Mycroft said finally. "And if this is about you and your frankly ridiculous notions of showing weakness in front of me, can you please get over it quickly? I'll return when you're feeling a tad more reasonable."

"Might have a long wait."

"Well, I'm not the one in a hospital bed."

Walking out of the room, Mycroft lingered long enough to overhear a nurse asking, "Is there anything you need?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "The temperature in here is absurd," he allowed. "I can't get warm."

Mycroft frowned; according to the doctors, this complaint had been voiced several times already. He was beginning to wonder if there existed such a thing as a psychosomatic chill.

Glancing around, Mycroft found Anthea already at his elbow, a cup of coffee in one hand and her BlackBerry in the other. "Sir?"

"Which files did you let him have?"

"All the ones you indicated, sir, except the Indonesian one."

"Why not Indonesia?"

"He was determined to sulk. And you have a reputation to maintain, sir."

Despite all his worries, Mycroft smiled. There was a reason he'd hired the woman.

* * *

_Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA  
November 2011_

 

It was snowing. In _November_. Sherlock glared in disbelief at the sky, but no one else around him seemed particularly concerned, just turned their collars up against the cold and soldiered on.

Cursed country. He missed his coat.

He discreetly marked a group of students and managed to follow them into the labs without being noticed. Once inside, it was child's play to card open the stairwell and climb up to the fifth floor.

Only when he reached the professor's office did Sherlock consider that there might have been a reason this was all so easy. There, sitting behind the desk, was an unfamiliar woman casually playing with a knife. And beside her, gagged, sat the professor he'd been looking for.

"Mr Holmes, I presume," said the woman with a sharp smile. "You took a bit longer than I expected."

"You have the advantage, as I don't know who you are," Sherlock said shortly, gaze flashing around the room. _Professor: newly married, owns two dogs. Assassin: hired not just for a clean hit, but to send a message_. "You're not Archie Morris."

"No," she shrugged. "He sends his regrets. He would have loved to join you here, I'm sure, but you've been making life a bit difficult for him lately."

"Part of my job."

"We all have ours," she acknowledged cheerfully. "Mine is to make sure you die."

"Really." Sherlock didn't bother to disguise the disbelief in his voice. "I've no doubt you're a very capable assassin, but I find it highly unlikely that I will die today."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Professor Jain is extremely flexible and a third-degree black belt." She looked left in surprise to see the professor stand up, shaking out each limb. Sherlock had time enough to ponder the continued underestimation of his acquaintance before the assassin was on the floor, the professor perched on her back.

"Professor," he nodded, "good to see you again."

"Sherlock! Please, just 'Olivia' will do. Now, if you'd be so good as to hand me the rope?" She grinned enthusiastically by way of greeting. "By the way, I really enjoyed your recent paper on red blood cell damage. It's a pity you never pursued biochemistry."

"You couldn't have taken care of her before I got here?" Sherlock grimaced, handing over the indicated binding and watching her tie the assassin's wrists together. "Cutting it a bit close, don't you think?"

"It's more fun this way," Olivia smirked. "Besides, wouldn't you have complained if you'd missed all the excitement?"

Sherlock finally cracked a smile. "Perhaps. But enough chit-chat. Do you have the information?"

"Yes." She fished a memory stick out of her shoe, but paused before handing it over. "Who is Archie Morris?"

"Not important."

"Not impor—" she spluttered. "Sherlock, why is it that you must always insist tumbling straight into danger without anyone to help you?"

 _That's John's job_ , Sherlock's thoughts supplied before he could stop himself. He shook his head, wrenching his mind from dangerous paths, and held out his hand. "My lot in life, I suppose," he offered in response. "And you're helping."

"Yes, but—" Something in Sherlock's eyes stopped the rest of that sentence, and Olivia merely sighed. "How's Mycroft doing?"

"He has not remarried. Unlike you."

"What – oh." She glanced at the picture on her desk with some fondness. "I see."

"I still maintain that it was evidence of Mycroft's supreme idiocy that he left you."

"It was a mutual agreement. But thank you all the same." She handed him the memory stick, which Sherlock carefully tucked into his glove.

"Would you like me to take care of the assassin?" Sherlock asked.

Olivia scanned Sherlock's face, one hand on her hip. "No," she said. "I'll call security. And before you leave—"

"We're not going to have a melodramatic parting scene now, are we? I thought you were better than that."

"It's just...you're in trouble, aren't you? Bigger trouble than usual, that is. Stay a good man, Sherlock, that's all."

Sherlock ducked out of the office, muttering under his breath, "That's a difficult thing to ask of someone."

* * *

_Unnamed hospital, England  
May 2014_  

 

"How's John?"

"How would I know?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped with supreme disdain. Now that he was starting to heal and no longer needed copious amounts of pain medication, he was becoming rather unbearable. He'd already terrorised two nurses to the point of tears. Mycroft hid a sigh.

"I believe Dr Watson rather values his privacy."

"So you're not going to tell me anything?"

"I see no need. Why ask me anything when you can deduce it when you meet him after your leave here?"

The stiffening of Sherlock's body was very telling.

"You weren't planning on it, were you? Were you even going to tell him you were alive?"

"It – didn't seem like the most advisable course of action." And there was that tell-tale shiver again. If Mycroft thought it might help, he would have suggested that Sherlock see a therapist.

Of course, Sherlock would never stand for that. John really was the only option here.

"Sherlock, please don't force me into doing something drastic. You know we'll both regret it."

"I thought kidnappings were rather beneath you now? Didn't you recently get promoted? Some...less minor position in the British government?"

Mycroft ignored the barb. "Sherlock, I – regretfully – do not know everything that happened while you were hunting. But clearly, something changed."

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock turned away, mouth set in sullen stubbornness. "My experiences are not up for discussion."

"Not even with John?"

"No." _Especially not with John_.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he prepared to leave. "One week," he said finally. "Then they're discharging you. I'll be watching."

"Don't you ever just mind your own business?"

"You _are_ my business, Sherlock."

* * *

_Johannesburg, South Africa  
March 2012_

 

Edgar Rush was one of the dodgier contacts that Sherlock had cultivated in his early years. "Know thy enemy" and all that – it was a good idea to have allies among the criminal classes, and Rush had never been a _serious_ criminal at that, all petty thefts and occasional drug dealing.

Sherlock could still recall with perfect clarity the smooth, sweet rush of cocaine through his veins—

But that was then. Sherlock had been clean for nearly a decade at this point, and Rush had long fled from England after treading once too often on the wrong person's toes. In his exile he'd proven to be a valuable resource, providing Sherlock with information on various smuggling rings, all connected in roundabout ways to Moriarty.

Rush was, unfortunately, now dead – going on about three hours, judging by the rigor mortis beginning to set in. Single shot, straight through the head, and that in itself would have been impressive without the added fact that the murder weapon was not a sniper rifle, but a modified air-gun. Remarkable.

So, Rush had known too much and needed to be silenced. The question remained, could Sherlock recover this information?

It took Sherlock unacceptably long to realise that the sniper hadn't burned all the evidence for a reason. Halfway through his search in the bedroom, clutching the single sheet of paper covered in code, Sherlock froze and cursed himself for being _stupid, stupid, stupid_ —

—because _of course_ that was what the sniper wanted, and _of course_ he would have waited for Sherlock to do his dirty work and find it for him before coming to get it himself.

On cue, there came a brisk rap at the door. His hand scrabbled almost instinctively at his pocket, but the Sig was back in London – _with John, where it belonged_ –, and Sherlock ducked down hastily, searching for either a weapon or a way out. Rush was an informant; he had to have developed a healthy paranoia, had to have prepared for some kind of ambush...

 _There_. The bed post, the slight indentation exactly where one might reach if awakened in the middle of the night by an attacker. Sherlock fumbled at it, found the panel that slid open and dropped a stiletto into his waiting hands.

Sherlock felt his breathing settle; there was the familiar cold tranquillity settling over his mind, dulling the panic that would otherwise distract him. The sound of the door's lock giving way echoed quite loudly in his ear, but it only brought a rather predatory grin to his face.

Two things mattered right then: there was a man between Sherlock and the door, and Sherlock was quite proficient with a knife.

* * *

_Frant, England  
June 2014_  

 

_Go, before I make you.  
MH_

_I don't even know his address.  
SH _

_18 High St, Frant, Kent. Would you like me to send you a car, too?  
MH _

_Sod off.  
SH_  

 

It was a nice house, most people would say, the sort that ordinary couples bought and lived lovely, normal lives in with their equally ordinary neighbours. And Sherlock Holmes, with the scent of crime scenes forever clinging to him, did not belong here.

He thought about stepping off the kerb and leaving. The cab had already gone, but he could always call one. Or possibly walk to the train station. Walk anywhere, really – because did he have somewhere to go at all?

 _I'd be lost without my blogger_ , he'd said a lifetime ago. It was true now; he felt adrift, longed for the warm solidity of John by his side. _John_ , who would know in an instant that Sherlock was cold and tired and decidedly _not good_.

But could he leave now? The phone in his pocket sent him phantom vibrations at the thought, as if in premature warning. Damn Mycroft and his interfering machinations.

He would have happily stood there just staring at the door, deducing the lives of those who lived within, but someone came along and snapped him out of indecision.

"Sherlock Holmes! What are you doing here?" The questioner was a woman, her mouth open in half-suppressed shock but with the softness of a habitual smile around the corners. _Natural blonde. Some personal tragedy in childhood. Confident, surgeon's hands hovering about her midriff, and hints of fatigue combined with her colouring—_

 _Ah. Interesting_.

"Ms Mary Morstan?" He remembered her case – it had been an entertaining one, with a level of conspiracy unmatched until the introduction of Moriarty. Embezzled funds, although the money had been unrecoverable due to political reasons. Otherwise it would have made her quite rich – rich enough for her to live somewhere much better than this small brick house on the corner of a quiet street.

She didn't seem too bothered by that, though. In fact, she appeared quite content.

"It's...Morstan-Watson now, actually," she offered, and there, _that_ was what he'd been looking for, that one thing he always managed to miss. "Would you like to come in? I'll put the kettle on."

She turned and strode towards the house without waiting for a reply. She was, Sherlock recognised, giving him a choice. If he didn't follow, she would understand and never breathe to John a single word.

Her equanimity at finding a dead man on her doorstep was rather satisfying. Hadn't John been the same way, allowing himself to be dragged to murders without raising an eyebrow? She was a good match for him – much better than those high-strung girlfriends he'd insisted on picking up.

So Sherlock stepped into the house of Dr John Watson, GP, and Ms Mary Morstan-Watson, MRCS, hoping her tea was as good as John's.  

 

The house was...comfortable. There was an air of orderliness about it without anything being clinically neat: in fact, a familiar jumper carelessly draped over an armchair brought a fond smile to Sherlock's face. Warm colours predominated, and Sherlock could easily imagine the life John and Mary led in this place, all easy affection that was in no danger of burning out anytime soon.

"Have a seat," Mary urged, carrying a tea tray into the room. "Sugar?"

"Please," Sherlock replied automatically, inhaling the calming scent of Earl Grey. He settled onto the sofa and watched as she stirred the tea in brisk movements.

"So," she started, handing him a cup, "rumours of your death seem to have been greatly exaggerated."

"Somewhat," he agreed. "Yet you don't seem very surprised by this fact."

"Well, it's _you_ , you know."

"...no."

"Well, John...he told me about you. Quite often. Still does, now and then." Her voice had gone a bit distant, with a tender note underneath the words. "And the way he talked, it was like you were capable of anything. To be honest, I'm not sure he _really_ believed you were dead at all, sometimes. It was like he was hoping that one day, you'd just show up out of nowhere and come back into his life." She shook her head a little and stared directly at Sherlock. "And he was right, wasn't he? Because here you are."

"John has an inexplicable faith in people," Sherlock said shortly. "And I haven't...come back."

"No?" Mary had put her cup down and was looking at Sherlock curiously. "Then why are you here?"

Sherlock disliked being on the receiving end of that look, bright and piercing – as if _she_ could figure _him_ out. He took a sip of tea to avoid meeting her eyes; the hot liquid trickled down his throat pleasantly, letting him think. "Have you told John about your pregnancy?" he asked her abruptly.

"My—" She let out a startled laugh. "I'm not even going to ask. Yes, I have."

"About two months?"

"Two and a half."

"I'd imagine that John was thrilled."

"He is pretty excited about it, yes," Mary admitted, smiling to herself. "But, I don't know, it's a bit early—so much could happen—"

Sherlock never had the chance to respond to that – _three-quarters of clinical miscarriages happen in the first trimester, but you're a doctor, you know how to take care of yourself_ – because just then, John entered the room.

"John—" Sherlock set his cup down into its saucer and hurriedly stood up, suddenly feeling rather uncertain.

At the quiet _clink_ , John blinked, shook his head, and went right back out.

"Oh, dear." Mary looked after him worriedly. "I'd better go talk to him. Sherlock, you can—well, stay here, or leave, whichever you want. John'll come round – he just needs some time, I think."

There was an unfamiliar feeling in Sherlock's throat. "All right. I—thank you."

* * *

_Lausanne, Switzerland  
July 2012_

 

Sherlock Holmes stood on a street corner, devoid of scarf and hair shorn, drawing a quivering tune from a second-hand violin. Most of the passers-by glanced past him and went on their various ways. On occasion, someone might approach and toss a coin or two in the open case in front of him; those he acknowledged with a low " _Merci_ " without breaking from the music. _Say thank you, Sherlock. It's what people do_.

He'd been playing for several hours, expectant. Finally, as the sun dropped lower in the sky, a ten-franc note was dropped at his feet, a white note flashing briefly from underneath the yellow. Sherlock glanced up nonchalantly to follow the progress of his benefactor – a slender woman, her hair covered and arms wrapped tightly around herself. A frown flitted over Sherlock's face: she couldn't have possibly announced her uneasiness any more clearly.

As the melody trailed to an end, Sherlock crouched down to pack his violin and palmed the note in one practised motion. Only two words greeted him, in a handwriting he'd learned to detest over the past few months: _Too late_.

Sherlock's head snapped up to stare at the messenger. She didn't meet his eyes, and that was enough.  

 

He took her back to the safe-house, steel grip on one elbow, and she let him because she was terrified. "Qui vous a donné la note?" he demanded furiously. "Décrit-le!"

"J-Je ne sais pas, il faisait noir, il m'a simplement dit de vous la donner—"

"Ne me mentez pas," he snarled, because every taut line of her body was shouting out her deception. 

The woman only closed her eyes tightly, frantically shaking her head, and then Sherlock knew.

"Ah. Il était votre amant."

"Non, non—" But the protest was feeble, automatic.

"Que savez-vous? Dites-moi tout!" Sherlock commanded, and the glacial note to his voice must have been obvious even to her, because she started in terror and began to shiver harder than before. "Je vais vous faire mal."

"Je vous en prie, non, je ne sais pas—"

"Mauvaise réponse."

She screamed at the first broken rib. By the fourth, she'd fallen entirely silent.

 

"Japan." An envelope was thrust at Sherlock. "Flight leaves in four hours."

"Code word?"

The courier paused, tilting his head as he listened to the voice in his earpiece. "Pirate," he repeated slowly.

Even before he'd finished speaking, Sherlock had snagged the ticket out of the man's hand and was scrambling out the door.

"Don't mind me, then," he muttered at Sherlock's back. "I'll just call an ambulance, shall I?"

* * *

_Frant, England  
June 2014 _

 

John hadn't gone far. Mary found him just down the road at The Green, perched on a bench and staring numbly at the grass by his feet.

"John?"

He didn't look up, but there was a slight loosening of the set of his shoulders, some wordless invitation in the downward tilt of his head, so Mary sat down beside him and took his hand in her own, stroking it gently. "What are you thinking?"

"God, I don't know," he sighed, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "I don't suppose you want to tell me that you weren't having tea with an _unbelievable, infuriating_ wanker just now."

"As a matter of fact, I was having tea with someone who's quite tired, and a bit afraid, I think."

"Afraid? He can come back from the dead, apparently, what does he have to be afraid of?"

"John—" Mary began, placating, but John was having none of it.

"Sherlock Holmes has felt fear exactly once in his life, according to him, and at the time he was drugged. And now he's—having _tea_ in my living room, because that's what he _does_ , just walk into your life and expect you to accommodate him at a moment's notice – accommodate him _and_ his skull, both. And maybe it was partly my fault, because I let him do it, but no. Just...no. I'm drawing the line. No coming back from the dead, Sherlock. It's a bit not good."

"He's missed you, you know."

"Yeah, well, I missed him too! At least he knew I wasn't dead – a comforting thought, don't you think, when you're missing someone?"

"So, what, you're just going to keep on missing him, even though you don't need to?"

John's frustration subsided abruptly, replaced by dull confusion. "I don't know what I want," he admitted. "I just...don't."

"Are you glad he's back?"

"No."

Mary only quirked an eyebrow at him.

"All right, maybe. A bit." He paused for a breath. "That doesn't stop me from being angry at him."

"That's okay," Mary said, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. "That's how you know you love someone."

* * *

_Ōita, Japan  
__December 2012_  

 

If this had been London – or Cambridge, or even Paris – Sherlock would not have been worried that there were two men following him.

As it was, he was in an unfamiliar city in Japan. He'd rid himself of any weapons, not wanting to draw the attention of the police, but his chasers probably didn't have the same worries. What was more concerning, however, was the fact that they were making no effort to hide themselves.

_What kind of assassin hunts in the open?_

Sherlock ducked into a department store, hastily abandoning his jacket behind a bin and donning a pair of wire-framed glasses. He resisted the temptation to look backward, although he could visualise all-too-well the men entering through the doors, elbowing their way through the crowd. Instead, he casually dropped his wallet on the ground and crouched down; through the multitude of legs, it was possible to make out two pairs of feet purposefully making way towards him.

Moving to stand up, Sherlock froze at the sight of a third – flanked by the fourth and fifth – pair of shoes striding in his direction. It all made sense now; they'd been so obvious to try and distract him. No doubt there were even more watchers, hidden, monitoring his every action, anticipating and planning.

Sherlock almost screamed in frustration. _Come on, think! What is the one thing to do that they'd never expect, the one thing they can't possibly have prepared for?_

They were closing in on him. He could almost hear the tick of a clock winding down, measuring out his life in frantic seconds—

—and the answer exploded upon him like a supernova.

An organisation, bent on killing him? The last thing they'd imagine would be that he'd kill himself.

 _The river_.

He sprang up and ran for the door, ignoring both the odd looks and the men sprinting right behind him. There, outside, a bus was pulled up by the kerb, its driver just stepping out.

 _The more people involved, the greater the chaos, the easier it is to lose sight of one man_.

Without contemplating at least twenty things that could go wrong with his plan, Sherlock dashed onto the bus and stepped on the accelerator pedal.

There were about a dozen passengers in the vehicle with him – some leaning sleepily against the windows, other engrossed in reading newspapers or checking emails – and it took a minute before it dawned upon them that something was wrong.

That minute was all Sherlock needed; by the time someone had raised alarm, the bus was already hurtling over the railing and into the river.

Sherlock aimed a silent apology at his fellow passengers ( _and to John, always John_ ) and took in a lungful of air. Then his thoughts were nothing but the shock of cold water on skin.

* * *

_221B Baker St, London, England  
June 2014_

 

The ceiling above the sofa had acquired another crack during Sherlock's absence. It joined four others already there – _one due to domestic violence, two from the damp, and the last from...the flask that had shattered during one unsuccessful experiment_ – in forming some spidery map in the plaster.

He turned over listlessly, and then froze as words floated up from 221A.

"John, it's lovely to see you."

"Mrs Hudson, it's wonderful to see you too. How's your hip?"

"Oh, feeling much better since the surgery. Mary did a great job. Give her my love, will you?"

"Of course." And here John's voice lowered. "How's, uh, Sherlock been doing?"

Sherlock had to suppress a sneer. Did John think he would _care_ about what they said?

"Not so good," Mrs Hudson was fretting beneath. "He just showed up one day out of nowhere and asked for his flat back. And of course, no one's lived there for ages – lots of people come round wanting to look at it, just curious, but they don't want to _stay_ , you know—"

"Hmm, yes, I can imagine."

"Well, of course, I couldn't turn him away, and the very next day, that man, with the umbrella—"

"Mycroft? Sherlock's brother?"

"Yes, that's it. Their parents _do_ have a taste for unusual names, don't they? Well, he brought back all of Sherlock's old furniture, and Sherlock shouted at him for a bit, but then everyone else left and it's just been Sherlock brooding on the sofa – you know the way he gets."

"I see." John's reply was a bit grim. "I suppose I should go and talk to him."

"You do that, dear."

Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson shuffling off – _to take care of the pie in the oven, just beginning to smell a bit burnt, no doubt_ – and John's steady tread coming up the stairs.

He turned his back to the door just before it opened and shut his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

No reply.

"Sherlock." John stepped in, turning on the light. He could hear the crossing of John's arms and the faint note of amusement in his voice. "I know you're not sleeping – you've got that innocent look you always get when you're shamming."

Indignant, Sherlock flipped over and glared at John. "What look? I don't have 'a look'. Mycroft trained me out of all my tells." A horrified look suddenly slid over Sherlock's face. " _Do_ I have a look? Is that why Mycroft always knows when I'm lying?"

"Well, that explains a lot," John commented dryly. "You're scarily good at lying, you know that? Anyway, Mycroft probably always knows because he's Mycroft, and your _brother_ , to boot. At least, Harry can usually tell when I'm lying, so I assume Mycroft can do the same. And no, you don't actually have a look. I said that so you'd stop pretending."

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed, and finally settled for a petulant pout. "I don't want to talk," he said.

"That's fine," John shrugged. "I'll just go make some tea."

It occurred to Sherlock belatedly that he'd never cleaned out the tea-set after the incident with the slime. "Er, John, you probably don't want to—"

"Oh, Jesus Christ." The exclamation informed Sherlock he was too late. "Sherlock, what in the world—actually, no, don't tell me. I don't want to know." John wandered back in, looking a bit sick. "Fingers in the crisper I can deal with, but _that_ —" He shuddered. "That's asking too much of a person."

"No one asked anyone anything," Sherlock snapped, suddenly feeling very cold. "You can leave if you want."

"Sherlock—"

"No, go back to your quiet life, with Mary and one-point-eight children in your pretty brick house. You could even get a dog, while you're at it. Isn't that what you want? Normality?"

"No," John said firmly. "Shut up, Sherlock, and listen to me for a minute."

The snap of the military was in his voice, and Sherlock went quiet in surprise.

"You leave body parts in the strangest of places and shoot faces in the wall when you're bored; you live off of crime scenes and bring trouble with you wherever you go; and every single day for the last three years, I've wanted you back. God, you're a walking mass of contradictions, you know that? I stuck with you through government conspiracies and mad bombers and serial killers. How do you possibly believe that I'd want what's 'normal'?"

Sherlock looked at John, an odd expression on his face. "Do you know that for most humans, memories are constructed, not remembered?" he asked, apropos of nothing. "You remember what you want to, and forget what you don't – the pleasant memories are strengthened, while others are abandoned."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"What if I'm not the person you remember? What if—" He broke off, looking almost helpless.

"Sherlock?"

"The last three years, John," he finally offered, "they weren't...good. There weren't good at all."

"Oh." That's all John said, a soft, almost inaudible exhalation of breath, and Sherlock didn't know what that meant, though he should have, because this was _John_ , whose every reaction Sherlock had thought he'd catalogued, but what John was best at was proving Sherlock wrong.

Sherlock waited.

"The second day we met, I killed a man," said John at last, contemplative, and Sherlock looked up sharply to find him staring off into the distance. "That cabbie. I didn't know him, never even met him before, but it was either you or him and I definitely didn't want it to be you."

An unvoiced question.

"It's not so much _what_ you did, Sherlock, but _why_ you did it. Because no matter what, you've saved people, and that makes you a hero. Nothing you've done will change that."

* * *

_Medan, Indonesia  
May 2013_

 

An empty warehouse was almost too pedestrian for this encounter, but Sherlock wasn't going to complain.

"I've been searching for you across three continents, Mr Morris. It's good to meet you at last."

Archie Morris laughed weakly. "Now, let's sort this out like reasonable people. I'm sure we can reach some type of agreement."

Sherlock pretended to think about it. "No."

"Come now, Mr Holmes, everyone wants something."

"Yes. Unfortunately for you, I want you to tell me where to find Vincent Clay. And then I want you dead."

"Dead," Morris repeated, wringing his hands. "That's...so final, Mr Holmes."

"I'm not interested in this game anymore." Sherlock's voice was flat. "It's gone on long enough, and I have other things to do."

"Oh, really?" The man's voice had acquired a wheedling edge, his eyes jumping around nervously. "There's no need to carry this through to the end, you know. Wouldn't it be so much easier for you to just abandon it all? Go back to your life, then, Mr Holmes, and we'll leave you alone. Live and let live."

"But we both know that's not going to happen." Sherlock stepped closer to the other man, completely impassive. "No, letting you live would be like allowing a rabid dog free. The best thing for everyone would be for me to put a bullet in your brain. I'd be doing society a favour, really."

"Would you?" Morris's gaze had suddenly gone sharp. "Is that what you've been telling yourself? You've certainly been productive, I must say – leaving a trail of bodies across several countries, and many of them quite innocent."

Though he tried his hardest not to react, Sherlock couldn't stop the flinch from running through his frame.

"Yes," Morris pressed, sensing his advantage. "What would your John feel about that? Do you think about that, sometimes, during these cold, lonely nights? Ever wonder how it'd feel to have him looking at you, genuinely afraid?"

"Shut up," Sherlock said tightly. "Your death – it could have been painless. That option is no longer open."

A faint scuffling sound reached both of their ears then. Morris's head instantly swivelled towards it, an almost triumphant grin ghosting over his lips. But the seconds ticked on by, and there was nothing else, just a harsh silence broken by the huff of Morris's quick, nervous breaths.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "It's just you and me, I'm afraid. Cooperate, and it won't hurt quite so much. Now, are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

Morris clenched his jaws, and Sherlock smiled, a feral look.

 

"You owe me, Holmes," a man was drawling into his phone outside the warehouse, glancing at the unconscious sniper by his feet. "Your baby brother likes to run into traps without looking."

"Is he all right?"

"I'd say so. Although you might want to get someone here for the clean-up. I'm impressed, actually – didn't think he had that in him, but he clearly knows what he's doing."

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. "All right. What do you want?"

* * *

_London, England  
July 2014_

 

The _ring_ of a mobile vibrated through an office in New Scotland Yard. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Hello?"

"Hello, Greg, it's John."

"Oh, John, hello. How are things?"

"Things are...good. They're fine."

Greg bit his lip, but the question slipped out anyway. "So, er, Sherlock, he's not—"

"Dead? No, no, it seems he's not." John's voice was wry. "How'd you find out? Did he just appear at a crime scene and demand access to everything?"

"No, and I'm glad he didn't, he would've given my team a fit." Realisation dawned. "Is that what he did to you? Just show up without even a 'hello'?"

"Something like that."

"Git," Lestrade nodded, though there was no bite in the word. "If he'd done that to me, I probably would have punched him." They shared a weary chuckle. "But no, it was that Mycroft bloke."

"Mycroft? Why would he tell you that?"

"Apparently he's gone and set up 'Consulting Detective' as an official position in the Met. Would you believe Sherlock out-ranks Anderson now?"

There was a delighted laugh from the other end. "Seriously?"

"Yep. Tell me again, exactly how powerful is this brother of his?"

"Believe me, you don't want to know. But all right, that makes things much simpler. I wanted to ask, would you get him on a case? Something interesting – you know what he likes."

"Yeah," Greg replied dryly. "All the ones _we_ can't solve."

"If it helps, I still have faith in you Scotland Yard lot, with or without Sherlock. It's just...I'm a bit worried about him. He's been sort of gloomy ever since he's come back, and it'd be good for him to get back on the streets, take his mind off of things."

"I'll see what I can dig up," Lestrade promised. "Oh, and maybe don't tell Sherlock about his promotion. Wouldn't want it to get to his head, after all. And think of poor Anderson."

"My lips are sealed." John paused briefly. "And Greg? Thank you."

"It's the least I can do."

* * *

_São Paulo, Brazil  
October 2013_

 

The lock on the door in front of him was, as was everything else in view, of very high quality – Sherlock conceded that even _he_ might have trouble picking it. Of course, that's why he'd taken so much trouble to acquire a copy of the key.

The look on Clay's face when he saw Sherlock in the living room was priceless.

"Well, this has been fun," Sherlock said as he stood up, "but the chase had to end at some point." An icy grin spread over his face as he noticed one of Clay's hands inching toward his pocket. "You're not a man accustomed to using weapons, having always been the kind to order hits and watch from afar, and I wouldn't bother calling anyone if I were you. Your security detail has been gravely compromised, as you can see. Is there anyone you trust? _Really_ trust?"

Clay's gaze was flickering all over the flat: over to the window, the telephone, the fish tank, the ottoman – everywhere, in fact, except to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"We're twenty-two floors up. Your landline has been disconnected – a cock-up by the phone company, and I'm sure it'll be restored by this afternoon, not that you'll have much use for it by then. Behind the fish tank is a burglar alarm, which I've taken the trouble to disable. But don't worry, I'm not planning to steal anything. Your ottoman did contain a number of interesting weapons, I admit – especially enjoyed the dagger with the poison well in the handle. So that even a scratch may be fatal, I assume. Well-crafted, but rather unimaginative, don't you agree? 'The poisoned blade.'" He held up the knife in question carelessly.

During Sherlock's calm recitation Clay had been growing paler and paler, and at the word "unimaginative" he became positively colourless. "M-M-Morris," he stuttered out. "Y-you—"

"Me," Sherlock agreed. "Did you enjoy that? Did they show you pictures of what I did to him? No? Well, then, how lucky for you that you can experience what he went through first-hand. I'm sure it'll be neater this time. Practice: I'm working on refining my technique."

Clay managed to utter the beginnings of a shriek before Sherlock's hand clamped over his mouth. Then came a gag, followed by the jingle of handcuffs, the cold metal biting into flesh.

"I've taken the precaution of refilling the well with a local anaesthetic," commented Sherlock thoughtfully. "How long do you think before the residual poison takes effect?"

* * *

_London, England  
August 2014_

 

Although Sherlock told himself otherwise, it wasn't the rising body count, Mycroft's meddling, or the cryptic notes left by the victims' bodies that convinced him to take the case; it was the desperation in Lestrade's voice.

"No John?" asked the DI, probing, as Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves.

"Clearly." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now, show me the body," he ordered, before Lestrade could ask any more irrelevant questions.

Lestrade sighed, settling for a sideways glance, and started down the hallway.

 

Sherlock was running: down the street, through the light mist, towards a killer, away from memories too recent, too dark.

Just running. One foot in front of the other. _Tap tap tap_ on the pavement. Steady, the rhythm weaving through the notes of Symphonie Espagnole, first movement.

No, _focus_. The evidence: no marks on the first or second victims, light bruising around the third victim's wrist, and then rope burns on the fourth and fifth – killer getting bolder. Obvious. Clear type: women, late twenties, very similar facial structure, especially around the nose.

Quick check of the victims' credit card bills, and yes, payment for recent rhinoplasty, it all fit together, and the only question left was whether the killer was a surgeon or nurse. A visit to the surgery cleared that point up: the paperwork for all the victims had been handled by one nurse, Matthew Graham.

It was Graham's day off, but plenty of other nurses were around, and a bit of questioning revealed that the man had a habit of dropping by his local pub for a pint and the cricket match. Simple.

Sherlock sent Lestrade a text: _Matthew Graham. Tonight, at The Rose & Crown, 2 Old Park Lane. SH_

A serial killer caught; three potential victims saved. What would John think about that?

The rain had started in earnest, cool and cleansing; as Sherlock walked in it, towards Baker Street, it felt a bit like absolution, benediction.

* * *

_Pamir Mountains, Badakhshan, Afghanistan_  
_March 2014_  

 

 _What was it about criminals and their flair for the dramatic?_ Sherlock wondered. Hiding out in the mountains – it wasn't even original.

But then again, Morán probably cared less about originality than about survival at this point. Sherlock allowed himself a wild grin at that, because this was the culmination of the longest years of his life, of carefully snipping away threads, of falling and being caught, of chasing the scent of blood. Far too much blood.

 _Just once more_. Then back to London, to John. _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ – they shared something now.

All he had to do was find the man.

"Mr Holmes," said a deep voice from behind him. "Would you please come with us?"

Sherlock turned slowly to meet the eyes of a heavily muscled man. Armed. Prepared to fight. Two others behind him, similarly built.

"Lead the way," said Sherlock, feigning calmness he didn't quite feel.

The thump of his heart had accelerated, and unbidden John's words came back to him. _Please, God, let me live_.

He didn't even believe in God.  

 

By the time they reached their destination, Sherlock had noticed that his kidnappers were not Morán's people, that they probably wouldn't accept bribes (even if he had been in the position of offering any), and that they'd apparently been watching him for some time. His heart-rate had settled back to near-normal, although his senses remained on high alert. None of the others had spoken a word since their meeting.

They gestured for Sherlock to enter the room, weapons waving. So he straightened himself up to his full 1.84 metres, refusing to look intimidated, and walked inside.

"Is this Mycroft?" he demanded imperiously. "Because this is absurd, and I really don't have time for such nonsense. Inform him that I shall kill him once I'm back in England, MI6 protection notwithstanding. Good-bye."

"Mr Holmes, please do shut up," said the other occupant of the room, in a voice that fully expected obedience. "Your brother, while useful to deal with on occasion, is not involved here. No, I'm here to offer you my help."

"'Help'." He frowned. "I don't particularly require assistance, and this seems like an odd method of persuasion."

"Not with your rogue colonel?" There was a mocking lilt to the question. "For a man who doesn't 'require assistance', you've certainly taken your time."

Sherlock reluctantly turned back from the door. "You have an interest in Morán, also?" His eyes narrowed, flickering about. "But...surely you don't need me. Your men were efficient and well-trained; no doubt you've more elsewhere. Were he truly a threat to you, he'd already be dead. As he is not, the question remains: what kind of game are you playing?"

"Why work at cross-purposes when there are valuable allies to be had?" A brief shrug. "I try not to expend more effort than is needed."

Sherlock scrutinised the other; the returning gaze was equally calm.

"All right," he nodded abruptly. "Name your terms."

"Morán dead. You gone, afterwards."

"Yes." The agreement was immediate. "But let your people know that Morán is _mine_."

"Done." She held out a hand. "Nasira Ibrahim. It's a pleasure to work with you."

"Save your compliments. Until the end."

 

There was snow swirling in the wind, and Sherlock almost laughed at that, so much did everything resemble one of John's horrible action movies. All very dramatic, even _cinematic_ , and here they were, the climactic moment: the villain dies, the hero goes home.

Hero?

"It's all gone, Morán: the network, your people. It's only you now, and not for much longer."

Morán gave a humourless smile. "It was good work, Holmes," he said. "I almost enjoyed watching you do it, dismantling a lifetime, piece by piece."

Was that the admission of a totally defeated man? No, there was desperation, but something more, too, hot and dangerous like the snarl of a cornered tiger, and there must have been something Sherlock was still missing, something he'd overlooked—

—and without a word Morán whipped out a Beretta M9 from his jacket and pulled the trigger. Sherlock had dropped at the motion, but the pain burning up his arm said the bullet hadn't missed entirely.

"Boring," Sherlock bit out. "Unimaginative. Dull."

"It gets the job done sometimes," said Morán, walking closer.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and pulled out his own pistol.

He didn't miss.

Just a body, crumpling to the ground, but in that fall was everything. "John," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes.

* * *

_London, England  
September 2014_

_  
_

_Baker St. Come if convenient.  
SH_

There was the faint beep of John's mobile, and he stared at the screen for a long while, an absent smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

"John? What is it?"

"It's—well, it's Sherlock." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "That tosser."

"Oh, I see." And perhaps one of the best things about Mary was that she did see, and she didn't even blink twice as she handed him a coat. "Here, take this – it's supposed to get chilly later."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" He gestured awkwardly towards her, frowning. "You won't—"

"What, me? I'll be fine. I've still got paperwork from last week to finish up. You just worry about you. And Sherlock," she added as an afterthought. "Because God knows _he_ doesn't."

"I love you," John said suddenly, fiercely, looking at her in something like wonder.

"I should certainly hope so," she quipped with a cheeky grin. "You did marry me, after all. Now _go_."

So even as John muttered, "This had better not be to send a bloody text," he was setting out for the train station, absent a limp and with a hint of cheer in his steps, and Mary watched him go with a faint smile of her own before turning back.

 

_Fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened mostly because as much as I tried, I couldn't do a post-Reichenbach fic from John's POV. So instead of an exploration of grief, here’s a Dark!Sherlock adventure. Huh.
> 
> All named places are actual places (massive props to Google Maps). Needless to say, fictional characters do not actually belong there.
> 
> On languages: I tried my best, but corrections by native speakers of Spanish or French will be gratefully appreciated. Also, there _should_ be dialogue in Indonesian and Dari...but that was a bit beyond my abilities :(
> 
> Apologies to anyone whose country, language, or name I might've managed to insult, and thanks for reading :)


End file.
